


Rent-A-Clown

by dawngloaming



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: ? - Freeform, ??? - Freeform, Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Blow Jobs, Bottom Joker (DCU), Bratting, Cluster B Personality Disorder, Collars, Consensual Infidelity, Consensual Kink, Consensual Sex, Creampie, Crossdressing, Crying During Sex, Cuckolding, Dirty Talk, Dissociation, Dom Bruce Wayne, Dom/sub, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Sex, Exhibitionism, Fashion & Couture, Fluff and Smut, Humiliation, Husbands, Leashes, M/M, Married Couple, Married Life, Married Sex, Master/Pet, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Ownership, Personality Disorder, Pet Names, Petplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Play, Praise Kink, Promiscuity, Public Blow Jobs, Public Humiliation, Public Scene, Public Sex, Service Submission, Sex Club, Shameless Smut, Sloppy Seconds, Smut, Sub Joker (DCU), Subdrop, Subspace, Tears, Teasing, Top Bruce Wayne, Verbal Humiliation, Voyeurism, hot wife kink, more like uhh, somewhat i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28313496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawngloaming/pseuds/dawngloaming
Summary: No one is writing for my kinks, so I'm being the change I wanna see. This is part of my silly little personal, domestic canon. Long story short, Bruce offers Joker a little relief from chronic boredom. Said relief also prevents risk taking behavior. Yay for including under-addressed symptoms of real mental illness. Again, being the change I wanna see! Joker is Cluster B. Like, just a ball of Cluster B personality disorders. Do note, btw, that not all Joker's thoughts are healthy. Shhh I'm copin heah! Anyway, the clown gets passed around (consensually, duh.) The sex club is based on vague research, but a lot is very much made up. If it's inaccurate to how most sex clubs really are, then frankly my dear? I don't give a damn! I simply haven't had the pleasure of attending one (yet?) and won't anytime soon cuz pandemic. This is my raunchiest fic to date tho omg.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 3
Kudos: 44





	Rent-A-Clown

“Bruuuuce!” Joker whines, reaching up to swat at that handsome mug above him, part and parcel of the terribly comfortable lap his head is nestled against. 

Bruce (with excellent reflexes as should be expected of THEE Batman) calmly moves his cup of tea out of Joker’s reach, preventing the hot liquid from being splashed right into the tablet his other hand holds. Can’t a man simply read his morning news (not that it’s ever restricted to just that time of day) without near-catastrophic interruption? 

Certainly not. 

Not when one has a clown as a housepet. But well, it’s never a clown’s fault if his environment isn’t meeting his needs for enrichment and new stimuli, huh? Bruce knows this, because Bruce is a responsible handler--er, husband. In fact, being so responsible, why doesn’t he take care of this behavior right now and give his clown some of the daily playtime he needs? 

Gently, he places the cup on its saucer with a clink that makes Joker shiver, wiggling in anticipation. What might his bat have in mind for diversion? He only has to ask and his knight will do whatever he needs. Kneel to his clownly highness oh so dutifully, raise up his great big sword to vanquish...oh, well, you know. Typical knightly tasks. 

Hm? Alright, alright. Now, I know what you're thinking: clearly these two have different ideas of who is in charge, of who wears the pants and who wears the...bells? Well, not to worry, since the truth is, Bruce is as much a fool for Joker as Joker is for Bruce. That's saying something since Joker's, well, an actual fool. A jester. 

Concerns of power struggle laid aside, let’s cut the camera back to the action.

Bruce reaches down with the hand that had been holding the tea, and caresses Joker’s ever-errant forelock out of his face, the way he’ll pointlessly attempt for all eternity. 

Joker mocks up some loose approximation of a purr, nudging up into the hand.

“Wanna play?” Bruce asks, glancing down, quirking a brow impassively.

An owlish gaze blinks back, once, slow. 

“Something new, this time?” Bruce continues, brushing his thumb across one of those sharp cheekbones, even more stark and jutting in Joker’s repose. 

Joker rolls over, moving to bite the digit before it departs, eyes flashing.

Bruce brings it back, obligingly cupping Joker’s chin in such a way as to allow the slightest nibble of rebellion.

Before those famous chompers can do any damage, Bruce begins to press down on Joker’s lower lip, prompting the clown to take it into his mouth to suck. 

He’s still clearly antsy and understimulated, given the way his face has yet to melt into the submissive look Bruce has come to relish. Those sharp brows remain arched in a look of malintent, same as ever, even as he squints with what looks to be an attempt at a smile.

“How about we go out tonight?” Bruce proposes, when Joker pulls off, wiping his mouth with a shirt sleeve, brows now bunched in consternation.

“I want you to myself, Brucie. For this one damn night.” he mumbles against the arm concealing what’s surely a frown. The spitting image of Cabanel's painting of Lucifer. 

Bruce can’t help but let loose a smirk at this. 

Extending his hand for Joker’s to meet it in the middle, he explains his plan. 

“I know, honey. I know someplace discrete. No paps, no metas, no civs. All I need is for you,” here he leads an incredulous Joker to inch his way back into his space. “All I need is you to knock em dead,” he finishes, planting a kiss upon ivory knuckles.

At this point in the relationship, Bruce can throw around a bit of tongue in cheek humor without fear of Joker acting out the “request” in mock innocence. Without double entendres on the mind, the clown’s eyes light up, catching his bat’s drift. 

Joker immediately springs up off the couch with a squeeze of Bruce’s hand and flashes a quick grin. 

“Meet you at the Porsche at about 15,” he whispers, slow and lascivious as if confessing the location of a series of bombs.

Well, in the promised amount of minutes (shockingly speedy for Joker, diva extraordinaire), the only bomb to be found is Joker. Decked out as a real bombshell, ready to “knock em dead.” 

Bruce, too, has gotten dressed quickly enough, and has swapped a pair of grey sweats Joker may or may not have given him as a “birthday gift” (“for me, or for you?”) into a simple all black suit look with a burgundy tie and red-brown shoes. He made the right choice, given the way Joker’s opted for a darker lipstick. He is wont to do so, when it comes to evening affairs, so it was a safe bet. The rest of the clown’s makeup is simple work befitting a limited time to get ready. Good, that twiggy-style eyeliner and mascara will be nothing but streaks by the end of the night.

Taking Bruce's arm with a proud tilt of his chin, Joker sidles up in a matching bodycon dress. His outfit is, as usual, much more intricate than anything Bruce would choose to don. It's all stiff, deep burgundy fabric that gradually darkens to black where it falls at sheer-black stockinged knees and exposes a slit of white thigh, wrapped in a mahogany garter. The bodice has sharp points like the ears of a bat on either end of a scooped neckline that exposes plenty of bruised collarbone. The lower-back swoop of the zipper-end exposes even more pale skin, including that which is marred by a bat-shaped tramp stamp. At the front, the waist is cinched with a thin Wayne Enterprises half-belt in silver, to compliment its wearer’s complexion. The look is completed with a pair of louboutin frenchissima 85s, Bruce’s own “birthday” (chemical bath anniversary) gift for Joker. The clown’s favorite pair of shoes. His hair is straightened and slicked back so that only a few wet-looking tendrils of dark green drape over his slightly drooping left eyelid. The remaining details are short blood-colored nails and a simple silver bat-shaped stud in his right earlobe. 

Bruce presses the button that pops up the doors of the car like wings, and escorts Joker to his side. He enjoys the click of Joker’s heels on the way around, and the way his lady for the evening winks at him with a smirk, folding his long limbs into the narrow space they are afforded. 

Once Bruce is in, he instructs the vehicle to take them someplace called Rabbithole. He can practically see Joker’s ears perking up at the name. 

“Curiouser and curiouser, Batsy. Lemme guess, what sort of hidey hole we’re heading to. Hmmm...some sort of little burrow where the Gotham elite go to fuck like rabbits?” Joker asks, flirtatiously blowing one of the longer tendrils in his face out of his way, as if copying Harley.

Bruce merely flashes a smile, canines glinting like his dark eyes in the passing lights. It’s enough to make Joker want to pull over. 

Bruce figures as much, noting the way Joker’s tongue darts out to flicker dangerously over his painstakingly applied lipstick. 

He leans over to squeeze a pale thigh, laughing, “Geez, J, let’s keep it classy, ok? You stay on your side until we get there, got it?” Squeezing harder he adds darkly, “You’ll be head over heels in wonderland in no time, rest assured.” 

Joker moves to trap Bruce’s hand between his legs, squeezing back with all the (meager, given the thigh gap) force he can muster, despite the innocent grin flashing across his face. 

In no time, the two have pulled into the lot of some shady looking warehouse, the sort very familiar to Bruce’s green-haired companion, who, of course, quirks a brow at the sight, amused.

“Slumming it, are we, Batsy baby?” 

The comment earns an eyeroll. 

“Sure, doll.” 

A security camera blinks red in the dark, and then the metal garage door of the warehouse rolls up, exposing a darkness much deeper, tinged in red. Down the rabbithole they roll as a ramp appears beneath them, extending deeper down like a parking lot.

“Weee!” 

Bruce rolls his eyes again at the near-automatic silliness of his date and his ever running mouth. It’s no problem. He knows that mouth knows how to shut up when it counts. And if it doesn’t Bruce knows how to make it happen. 

The car pulls into a lot of other ritzy cars, all bathed in that same deliciously blood-drenched lighting. 

Bruce helps Joker to unfold from his seat and pulls him out into the red, causing Joker’s eyes to dart about, already blown pupils reflecting the light like a devilish camera flash. He squeezes in closer to Bruce, giving the slightly shorter man an excited shake that causes him to slip on his frenchissimas, right into Bruce’s chest. 

Bruce wraps a securing arm around the clumsy clown’s waist, indulgent. 

Joker, already drunk on excitement, presses a dark kiss mark to his brunette’s neck. He’s giggling deliriously, yet hushed and controlled by his standards. Tonight is a high society night. Joker’s a good girl, tonight. A debutante waiting patiently in her pretty little dress to be debauched by her gentleman. 

“Keep it classy,” he mumbles, parroting the bat’s earlier words.

A couple of Bane-esque bouncers guard the doors to a room on the far end of the lot. Other couples, similarly dressed in dark toned evening wear, glinting with flashes of metal and latex, click clack their way across the concrete to be let in. Some of them stop to greet each other or wave one another over. Joker’s head is on a swivel, taking it all in, eyes rapidly scanning every guest with bubbly-nervous energy. 

That is, until his wide eyes lock onto a raven pixie cut beauty in a long-legged latex pantsuit that stops under her pale shoulders. The woman’s eyes widen and then she smiles with a catlike squint. Kitty Cat’s here? 

Joker hisses in her direction (all in good fun), making claws of the hand not draped over Bruce’s shoulders. The woman, none other than Selina Kyle, laughs with a wink and a wave. In a blink, she’s sashaying through the doors, blowing a kiss to a bouncer who nods with familiarity. 

Hm, Joker thinks. Ms. Kyle sure is a fun one. Must be the one who introduced his favorite stick in the mud to such a clearly fun place. 

The thought rapidly sends his mood down, as a chill of cold anger courses through him. He breathes quickly and audibly, shrugging it off, given that he and the cat are back on good terms again. Nonetheless, his still-clawed hand finds its way to his neck to fondle the claw-mark scar at its base, reliving a memory of less friendly times. 

A glance at Bruce indicates that naturally, the man hasn’t missed a single thing with those ever-analytic eyes of his. He must have declined to comment as a way to avoid riling Joker up. To set Bruce at ease, Joker waves to a couple more hapless women, who wave back in hesitant bewilderment. 

Bruce chokes back a laugh. Joker doesn’t dare stifle his smile. Not when he catches that little amused exhale that he chases like a high. Has chased like a high, right up to the altar, ever since the night of the siren wails and the rain patter and the one joke that didn’t fall flat as a man tightrope-walking a flashlight beam.

At the door, one of the guards gives the clown prince(-ess. princess, for the night) a subtle once over that could be read as judgement of Bruce Wayne’s taste in lovers. Or so Joker’s defensive mind thinks. While Bruce politely asks the other about how he’s been, dapping him up like a bro, Joker flashes the judgemental (or so he thinks) guard his trademark killer smile. 

The man straightens and looks away, promptly resuming his duties. 

Joker muffles a giggle, biting at his own finger in restraint, noting the way the large man seems to shudder at the sound that escapes. Bruce quickly finishes his chat and squeezes Joker to him almost too roughly. 

“Relax, Brucie, I’m your good girl, aren’t I?” he laughs, the glassy titter of an heiress, this time.

“Better be, darling,” Bruce whispers back, a growl slipping into his voice, sardonic on the diminutive. 

Inside, there are red velvet walls and wine-rich carpet everywhere, deep glossy woods, gold accents and glass here and there. 

They pass a swanky bar with ever so many drinks, but don’t stop. They can order drinks in the lounge from one of the roaming bartenders. 

They also pass doors that thrum with music, the flash of lights seen through the cracks. Joker wiggles a little dance at Bruce in question, but Bruce just squeezes his hip as if to say, “Just you wait.” 

Well, Joker is tired of waiting, and has been tired of waiting for something, anything, all day! 

He shimmies free and grabs Bruce’s arm to tug him towards the lounge faster. His laugh ricochets freely, recklessly, as he sashays backwards. The milling crowd of people turns to locate the sound’s source with a reflexive alarm that hasn’t waned despite Joker’s years of “inactivity.”

Bruce’s eyes flash with danger as Joker’s flash with triumphant anticipation. Fuck being a good girl, letting loose feels good for a change. 

Well, Bruce is a control freak, and a control freak loves a freak that’s out of control. 

A strong hand is wrapped around the tiny wrist tugging it oh so insistently, and yanks the lithe body forward, causing it to trip. 

Bruce forces Joker’s buckled knees into a kneeling position, bending a thin arm backwards.

Joker shivers, body still being wracked by laughter. It’s been so long since he’s been bad in public. So long since he’s let that particular sound slip, no holds barred. 

Bruce knocks those kneeling thighs apart with the toe of his shoe and presses home. 

The laughter hitches into a stifled whine. 

He then retrieves a leash from his pocket, with an adjustable collar on one end. He pauses to kneel, securing the dark leather around a white throat, making stern eye contact all the while. 

When he gets up, he looks down, impassive again. Disdainful, almost, but the next words out of his mouth are brazenly nonchalant for such a public place.

“Crawl,” he pronounces lowly, the gravel in his voice still present.

Oh. Why does Joker bother to be good, again? Being bad makes Batsy so much better. Kidding, of course. Just a joke. 

Truly, that little flare up of rebellion was a fluke. How can we be sure? Oh, because Joker just likes to push. But when pushed back, and pushed down for that matter...well, he’s no longer interested in getting back up. 

With a taste of what’s allowed in a place like this, he sinks eagerly into the role being asked of him. 

That’s what a Joker does best. The wild card will don whatever suit his player requires. 

Well, subspace, here we come. Head over heels into wonderland it is, after all! 

Wonderland shimmers, blinking with bright eyes. So many eyes of so many nervous white rabbits. Oh yes, this’ll be fun.  
Showtime. 

Bruce wants a pretty little pet? He’ll get a well-bred cheshire cat, nonsensically topsy-turvy enough to walk on a leash, feline enough to do it with grace. 

Joker paws his hair out of his eyes like a cat, hoping Kitty is watching somewhere. He wouldn’t know. His eyes are glued to his owner’s. 

Joker turns tail and begins a crawl the rest of the way to the lounge. It’s an interesting change to no longer tower above everyone, but to be side-stepped by trodding feet. He makes a slow beeline to a waiting couch at the back wall, front and center. 

Bruce, and truthfully, several men uncomfortable with their own brimming interest, are getting a quite the view: of Joker’s little ass swaying, his sinewy blank-canvas back, the inky bat symbol between the dimples where his hips start, and the bloody soles of his louboutins. 

He stops every few paces to lick at his “paws,” prompting bruce to tighten up on the leash. 

The audience is respectfully hushed, minus the dull roar of irrelevant chatter. No “The Joker--I mean Jack Wayne!” or “Bruce Wayne” to be heard. How interesting. The elites and their stiff upper lips, eh? Well, no wonder. Joker spots the mayor with a pair of pretty things in his lap, off to the left. (Haha!) 

At their destination, Bruce sits on the couch, front and center. Just as Joker had hoped, he looks down with legs spread wide and dominant. He extends a hand, indicating where he wants his pet. 

Joker crawls forward, already feeling rug burn through his stockings, which are no doubt starting to run under all this wear and tear. Nonetheless, he’s a good pet, and brings his chin to Bruce’s grasp. Joker laps at the fingers holding him, lids lowered in a dreamy look. 

“Gonna show the good people of Gotham what you can do with that pretty pink tongue, aren’t you? Be good and open up,” Bruce condescends, forcing Joker to nod, using his grasp of that sharp chin. Joker settles in readily, legs folded under himself, arching his back prettily as Bruce unzips. 

His cock is free and Joker is on it before anyone can catch a damn glimpse. They haven’t the right. That’s his fucking cock, dammit. 

Even skirting about subspace, Joker is dangerously possessive. Of course, he takes it into his narrow little throat with grace and none of the cannibalistic savagery he feels. 

“Good girl,” Bruce growls above him, petting his slicked hair like he means it.  
Just then, Joker hears the fluffing noise of a woman sitting down beside his man, and glances up, eyes narrowed, gaze deadly despite still-hollowed cheeks. 

Of course, Kitty decides to make her presence known again. Joker’s eyes widen playfully and then blink twice, slow and deliberate. A feline hello. Kitty returns the greeting as Bruce scoffs. His ex fiance and his current spouse have a strange dynamic, that’s for sure. 

Bruce turns to the woman, face deliberately cool, stifling any reactions to Joker’s ministrations, despite the way he’s now forcing Joker’s head to bob, forcing him to focus, dammit. 

“Selina,” he greets with a nod, voice admirably even. 

“Bruce. Fancy seeing you and your new stray here,” she replies evenly, smiling slightly with eyes glittering. 

Joker nearly chokes. He hates when she calls him that. It’s a bit too close to home. But Bruce ignores his brief gag and pushes on, thrusting up slightly. 

“Yes, well, he was bored at home. You know all about the trouble with boredom, Selina,” he explains, nonchalant and playful with his banter. 

While Selina tosses her head back to bark a laugh, Bruce allows a soft moan in the back of his throat. 

“Well, yes. You got me there, Bruce. The ice was free, I couldn’t help myself,” she says, jingling her wrist. “But your stray sure knows what he’s doing, by the looks of it. And what do you know,” she continues, turning to cast a slow glance behind herself. “I think my friend thinks so too,” she stage-whispers, motioning to a man she was chatting with earlier. 

The man is indeed staring, Adam’s apple bobbing as if in a combined state of anxiety and arousal, given his expression. It’s some weatherman. The handsome one that looks like a more doe-eyed Bruce. Selina clearly has a bit of a type, just as Bruce has a bit of a thing for devilish green eyes. 

She motions the man forward, curling a claw in his direction. 

“This is Johnny. Aaaand if I recall anything about your tastes, you’d just love to show off your pet’s mouth. Wouldn’t you, Bruce?” 

Bruce flips the cat burglar off, good naturedly, as she slinks away, surely to fill her purse for the evening and then dash. The fucking klepto. She used to do the same to any man the two would do their little best in show act with, in the past. It gave Bruce a hell of a headache. 

Johnny sidles over and sits down in Selia’s place, terribly hesitant, humorously timid in his big ol body. Bruce shakes the man’s hand as Joker’s gears spin, figuring out the arrangement. 

Hm, yes, this’ll suit him just fine, if the stirring under his dress has anything to say on the matter.

“Jonathan Katz, I know who you are. You keep my Givenchy from getting rained on,” Bruce quips, high society charmer-mode on full display. 

“S-sure, sure. Bruce Wayne, I k-know you too.” 

The man has a curious stutter that he never gets on TV. To be fair, it’s no shock, given the nervous glances he keeps giving Joker’s harmlessly occupied, still-bobbing head. 

“A friend of Ms. Kyle is a friend of mine. So, hey, my bitch is your bitch,” Bruce continues, giving a casual shrug and then petting Joker when he coughs. Oh, so he’s a bitch, now, huh? Meow, woof, whatever. 

Upon said cough, Joker is dragged off all eight inches of Bruce Wayne in his mouth, spit trailing from his lips as he blinks, slightly dazed but electrified nonetheless. He figures it’s time to play along. 

Debutante character haphazardly slipped back on, he extends a polite hand to Johnny while wiping his mouth inelegantly with the other hand. The lipstick still left and not lining Bruce’s cock is of course smeared even further. 

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Joker comments, voice grittier than usual despite an attempt at sounding like a charming southern belle. 

The man smiles, a bit too wide, shaky. 

“Oh The Joker’s a very good girl, don’t you worry,” Bruce reassures, clapping a hand over Jonnhy’s broad shoulder as he moves the other to tuck himself back into his pants. He’d already come in Joker’s mouth, though no one watching could have guessed. The batman has an excellent poker face. 

Joker, on the other hand, shudders at hearing his old title in full, The included. No regular degular, “Jack,” like Bruce usually uses for him in public. It’s just more demeaning to hear such a comment about The Joker, and Bruce know this.

Everyone already knows Jack Wayne is the name of Bruce’s little pet. Bruce’s little domesticated pet, enough of a bitch, enough of a damn stray, to take Bruce’s last name where he had none. 

But the Joker? Gotham’s terror? Well, Bruce seems intent on laying the true nature of their dynamic out in front of everyone, tonight. 

The Joker’s true nature as the batman’s loyal plaything. 

Joker crawls forward, still tethered to Bruce by the leash, and rubs a cheek against the leg of the weatherman before presenting his mouth for whatever good ol Johnny might want to insert into it. 

Naturally, the timid man starts with one tentative finger. 

Joker sucks like he means it, eyes closing in the bliss of knowing how thoroughly his bat owns him. Enough that he feels confident in renting out his clown’s mouth to strangers. No one is competition, no one is a threat to the bat’s claim on his clown. 

Hell fucking yeah. 

Joker opens his eyes dreamily, and pulls off only to startle the man by leaning right into his crotch. He breathes in, nuzzling his nose against the bulge he finds before catching the zipper in his teeth and tugging the fly open. Distantly, he hears the man gasp, and hears Bruce asking (with his voice so deliciously deepened, now unable to leave the Batman headspace) if the man is alright. 

A shrill, “just fine,” is squeaked back in response, to which Bruce replies with a chuckle.

What’s this fucking dude’s name again, anyway? Joker can’t remember. Hell, he can’t be bothered to remember, he doesn’t care who the man is. So long as this is what Bruce wants from him. 

He’ll do his best to prove that Bruce Wayne won’t fuck just any pretty lil thing. Only the fucking best. Joker is an extension of the Bat’s power over Gotham, an extension of his will. A symbol of his firm grasp on the darkness Gotham breeds, tamed into such submission. The ghastly smile of chaos, defanged.

With the man’s dick now pulled out of its confines (not bad, Joker thinks, pursing his lips so as not to drool) he draws back on his haunches to look up and confirm that the lucky man of the hour is truly insane enough to put his precious dick right inside of what most would see as a sure trap. 

Sure enough, the man answers with that face of terror-thrill that has always made Joker’s stomach turn ever so pleasantly. His trembling hand gives a hesitant tug to the longest green tendril hanging in Joker’s face, and Joker takes that as his cue. 

He smiles sweetly and then swallows the cock whole, not a single tooth to be felt. “The Joker’s a very good girl, don’t you worry,” Bruce’s voice echoes in his head, looping pleasurably enough to make him moan against the man’s base. The sound blends with that of the newscaster’s own moans, already blissed out enough to forget all his previous doubts. 

Joker feels proud, knowing he’s sure to be rewarded by his Bat.

Think of the devil! Cold air creeps up Joker’s thighs, as he feels his skirt being pushed up his back, exposing backless burgundy panties. Bruce’s voice comes from behind him, soothingly reassuring, “Just me, baby, that’s all,” as he runs his hands up his ass before giving a squeeze to that fun-sized handful of flesh. 

Joker continues to dutifully suck at the weatherman, who’s now caressing his exposed shoulder blades and back, far more adoringly than necessary. 

Bruce doesn’t mind, he likes to see people realizing just how beautiful his villain really is on the, erm, inside. The inside of his mouth, in particular. And elsewhere, too. 

Bruce runs a hand through his hair with a deep breath, admiring the way Joker wiggles against his pants, as if in a friendly hello. 

In response, he places a palm right over the inky bat on his lower back, after slicking up the fingers on his other hand and entering Joker with three fingers, hasty, the way his lithe little husband adores it. And oh how he most certainly adores it, if the muffled wine that leaves his busy throat has anything to say on the matter. 

“Johnny,” Bruce calls, still thrusting his hand into A Joker who’s definitely leaning back into it.

The other larger man’s eyes snap open, almost afraid, as if suddenly remembering whose mouth he’s using, but not remembering the permission he had received to do so. 

He’s not afraid of the Joker (the Joker, WHO, this is just Bruce Wayne’s bitch) any longer, he’s afraid of Bruce Wayne, looking at him with sharp eyes that could kill, dark enough you forget they were ever blue. 

Of course, he soon remembers, no harm no foul, Bruce Wayne is allowing him to smear his husband’s mascara, which continues to run more and more. 

“Would you like to fuck him?” Bruce asks, blunt as hell. 

Johnny blinks, gaping slightly, but then nods enthusiastically, however mute he has become, when he sees Joker looking up at him. He’s busy licking up that cock with that same sweet smile he’s been wearing, lips swollen like a cover girl’s.

Bruce pulls his hand out of Joker, leaving him with a light, encouraging smack of finality. 

“Alright, Princess, you heard the man. Be a good little cocksleeve, huh,” he says lightly, walking back over to the couch. 

No one has dared to claim his spot, in his absence, given the way everyone who isn’t lost in their previous activities has decided on the scene they would much rather get lost in, tonight: Gotham’s formerly most eligible bachelor and Gotham’s secret never-tell-a-soul wet dream. 

Oh yeah, and Gotham’s favorite morning television smile. Well, that’s a fun addition. They’ll take it. After all, Bruce Wayne hasn’t been spotted at this joint in ages, and certainly not with his new svelte little darling. 

Joker represses a petulant complaint about wanting Bruce’s cock instead of uhhh... apparently this Johnny fella’s. Right, that’s his name. But cest la vie, he was never one to balk at strange cock before he and Bruce tied the knot, and he’s not one to blink at the prospect now, either. 

It’s just that Bruce is such a damn tease, sitting over there with his fucking bulge in plain view, untouched as his arms rest across the back of the couch. 

Well, Joker knows he’ll get his just desserts as soon as he gets Johnny to come. 

That’ll be nice, anyway. Letting Johnny make him all moist and warm and dripping for Bruce’s convenience. And then letting Bruce come in him too, of course, until he’s spilling too much to be allowed to sit anywhere other than Bruce’s lap. Just the thought and every bone in his body seems to melt (aside from the modest one between his legs), making him a pliant ragdoll. 

Johnny put his hand out to help Joker up, wobbly on bambi-legs and he hasn’t even been filled properly. 

Joker keeps his skirt gathered about his waist as he hovers above Johnny’s dick, facing the audience. He sinks down easily, noting the way Johnny groans on the slide in, and the way his dick may be pretty, but nowhere near the thickness of Bruce’s, despite its decent length. 

He grips onto Johnny’s forearms, anyhow, as the man grips onto his hips, large hands drawing attention to the flash of the Wayne Enterprises belt branding the clown for all to see who he really belongs to. 

Joker turns to look at his beloved, and sees the man idly stroking the outside of his pants, still such a tease. Bruce tilts his head up with a smirk of a greeting, silently urging Joker to maintain eye contact. A request he somehow understands loud and clear, with the telepathy of having been nemeses for ages. 

As he lowers and lifts himself from Johnny, Joker maintains his gaze, forcing his eyes to blink open wider when they start to droop from all the hazy dreaminess that’s really begun to set in. It’s the fault of all this delightfully callous treatment, after so long under Bruce’s kind thumb, rather than under his cold cuffs. 

It’s fucked up, but it seems that he’s missed being treated publically like nothing more than a dolly to throw around. 

Johnny, suddenly bold, as if having somehow caught a snatch of Joker and Bruce’s telepathic dialogue, seems to have keyed into Joker’s wishes. Or gotten lost in his own. 

He seems to have tired of Joker’s languid, head-in-the-clouds pace, and gets a bit carried away with Bruce’s property. Joker is hoisted up by the legs, still on the man’s dick, and then flipped to face away from the crowd, so that Joker’s knees now hit the plush fabric of the couch. 

Joker splays his hands against the back of the couch to hold on tight as Johnny begins to really fuck him in earnest, now gripping Joker’s hips hard enough to bruise, slapping into him loudly, making even his modest behind jiggle slightly in rebound. 

He’s not even mad about this sudden switch, it really does feel good to be treated like nothing by this stranger. It’s nostalgic, reminiscent of the glory days when Bruce used to hand him off to Arkham personnel that treated him with much less delicacy than he ever did. 

Oh Bruce...that silly bat and that funny gentleness he always displayed when cuffing him up or hauling him in and out of the batmobile. Joker can’t help but moan at the thought. 

Anyone can be an extension of his Bat’s brutality, God's steadying punishment, but no one can stand in for his Bat’s affection. God's reward for piously giving into his penance. 

Through Bruce, Joker gets the whole world, pleasure and pain. The whole world is returned to him, no, bestowed upon him, as something he can actually feel alive in and make sense of. 

Bruce is watching him, he knows it though he can’t see it through the tears now welling, despite continuing to look in his direction. 

The dark blur that is Bruce seems to be jerking off, now, and Joker’s heart thrills at the thought that Bruce is enjoying his performance, finally. 

His bat isn’t the least bit bothered by how aggressively Johnny is handling him. He’s still just so secure in his ownership of Joker and his knowledge of what Joker enjoys, he didn’t even feel the urge to get up when Johnny started to disrespect the merchandise. 

Bruce sticks a hand out and lets Joker grab onto it, the two running their fingers across each other’s rings. That’s heaven, right there.

But paradise is quickly lost, because soon enough, Johnny’s all done, panting against Joker’s back, arms wrapped around his middle, audaciously possessive of what isn’t his. Joker hasn’t come, because it was all so fast. 

Bruce lets go of that thin hand and walks over, now, still stroking his cock languidly so that anyone watching can see how much thicker it is than Johnny’s as the man exits Joker’s body, sheepishly glancing at Bruce’s approach. 

Bruce doesn’t even look at him, already assuming his rightful position behind what’s his. 

“Had your fun?” Bruce asks no one in particular, smiling easy but empty. He’s got a one track mind. 

Johnny nods, blushing as he tucks himself back into his pants before shuffling off into the crowd.  
A couple of his friends pat him on the back, laughing and joking about how quickly he blew his load into the dolled up killer clown, no standards. 

Joker smirks, shakily. He loves causing people to betray their higher standards, their principles. And he already knows he loves what’s coming next, too. Even more, in fact. Bye bye, Johnny.

Hello, “Batsy!” he gasps out as Bruce enters his wet, cum-filled hole. 

“Tough luck, princess, just Bruce Wayne,” the brunette corrects, sarcastic tilt to his own name, always pronounced humorously in full. 

“Brucie, ah!” Joker gasps again, feeling oh so full in the way he truly missed. 

Even loosened up by Johnny, Bruce makes him feel tight. His throat feels tight, too, as Bruce claims it with a hand over his nape, pressing Joker’s head down into the upholstery it hasn’t left. The diminished airflow makes his head feel even floatier, as if there was nothing beneath it.

Nothing exists but for him and the bat, one organism, yin and yang. 

Bruce takes his time, unlike the previous dick that was in him, driving it home with slow, emphatic thrusts. His full length is dragged almost all the way out and driven all the way back in with loud smacks and again there’s that damned growl he’s always reserved for the criminals in the streets, under his fists, and Joker alone in the sheets, under his body. 

Joker is special, he epitomizes all of Bruce’s frustration. It’s as if he were all of crime in one body, even still, even through all the love that’s grown between the two. 

No one has ever heard Bruce Wayne sound this way, but he doesn’t give a damn, and Joker is in heaven for it, but thankfully, past the point of speech, and unable to say what he’s thinking. His mind is a flurry of leathery wings over a bright golden moon, full like the promise of hope. 

Full like--like his ass is, suddenly filled to the brim with cum, while his own dick remains untouched. 

Bruce, still in him, still thrusting out the last of it, finally obliges him by reaching down to engulf Joker’s whole package in his large grasp. 

And that’s all it takes. 

One fucking squeeze and one sarcastic, “bra-vo,” whispered in his ear with a kiss, and Joker is finally fucking cumming, silently screaming as spurts of him leak out Bruce’s hand. 

Bruce pulls out, and long drips of his own cum (and of course, some of Johnny’s) trickle out of Joker’s hole, trailing down his thighs and onto his poor socks.  
Bruce zips up, nonchalant, and returns to his seat, looking at his lover with laughing eyes as he licks his taste off his hand, not at all shy to be enjoying it. 

Joker’s weak for this, and can’t even begin to move from his compromising position. 

The most he can do is collapse against the back of the couch, tucking his spread legs under him, giggling deliriously, breathlessly, all the while. 

Bruce inches closer, walking his knees over the furniture towards his clown, whose arms he wraps around his neck, secure as he pulls the rest of that long body into his lap, tugging the rumpled skirt back down. 

“Show’s over,” Bruce announces genially, nodding at the voyeurs still lingering before turning back to Joker. He tilts the clown’s chin up to look at him, and Joker smiles at him, wide and dopey, giggles finally petering out. 

“Bravo,” Bruce says again, sweetly, this time, placing a kiss on that still smiling mouth that quickly gives in and opens up for bruce to lick inside. 

“Well done, J,” he whispers, cupping that absolutely ruined face, all garish streaks and blurs of red and black across white, green eyes even greener against inflamed blood vessels. 

“How bout you, did you have fun?” he continues, knowing full well the answer to his question. 

Joker merely nods as he buries his face into Bruce’s neck, surely getting makeup everywhere, and still too tired to speak, for once. 

“Wanna go home?” Bruce asks, receiving a quiet but content “Mhmm…” as a reply. 

Joker’s antsy boredom isn’t likely to return anytime soon, it would seem. Mission accomplished. The rest of this night will be a good one, all disasters now avoided. 

Bruce scoops Joker up bridal style, looping the abandoned leash around his hand as Joker nuzzles in to kiss his neck for the second time that night, leaving yet another dark lip print over the first. 

Bruce brings himself and his quarry to stand, murmuring that, “Alfred will draw you a bath.” 

The promise receives another series of nods that feel suspiciously like a comfortable cat rubbing its face into you, claiming you as one of its own. 

Yes, Bruce is Joker’s. He belongs to him just as much as Joker belongs to him (Gotham mandated Wayne Tech ankle monitor aside). It doesn’t matter who is wearing the collar at the moment, they are each collared by their rings and their vows.

The crowd parts as the two leave, those still entering through the doors, glancing as they head for the car. Joker hoists his head up to peer over Bruce’s shoulder. 

He musters up all the energy he has left and flashes a front page smile.


End file.
